Friday, May 20, 2016

Poetry By Apryl Fox

Apryl Fox has been published previously in Strange Horizons, Poetry Repairs, Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, and Offcourse Magazine, and currently resides in Michigan.

It Seems.I laugh because he has half a mindto think I would be cool with what he says,about bridges and waterways and othercool stuff like that. Today we went out tobrunch, and it made me think of Florenceon the Food Channel, making tea and sconesand cutting big pieces of cheddar. What oncewas lost was never found, but other thingswere found indeed, we replaced the losttelekinesis, and broke up the sod with a hoeand rake. The garden was soon going to beready, and my chef made olives and peanutsfrom scratch, I guess they were from the market,El Sol, on Broadway Street, where I used tohang out as a teenager, asking people for moneywhile I sang-old songs, mind you, but they werestill sweet, as sweet as they could be, and I sawold married couples walking hand in hand,and singing, and a brisk puppy walking downthe sidewalk, a man holding on to his leashwith his head up high, looking straight, nor rightnor left. Some days are better than others.------A Summer Rain.The rain smells of wet dew.I am quiet with realization.The sadness is in the cold, wet grass.I have found my vision.We can relate to the things of this world-and the next, and the next.Speed comes with thinking. I don't think withoutfeeling. He comes in the night, wearing adark parka. He feels me in the cool dawn.The summer rain splatters on the ground.It makes a soft, sweet sound.I don't know what's wrong with me.I think things have gone from here.Take me or leave me, I wouldn't know.There is a space in my arms below.How high can I fly, these words sing to me.I am embarrassed by hope, set on by fear.Take me as I am, leave the rest behind you-or near.A summer rain falls down, down.--------Winding Down the Hours.Like open doorways, I mix and mingle, I drive soiled tearsThrough linen sheets. Peace is not with me; a heart is not open,I quietly rekindle my tears, the heartache beats steady.I wish I could bring myself out of this stupor, but nothingWill relinquish this pain that is held on me, when my heart beatsSteadily, the thrum thrum of my heart. Who am I. Shadows are thrown on open doorways; daylight moves in throughThe open window, where a flower has fallen on a cold moaningOf wind. This life is not forbidden, this love is not forbidden,Nor is my heart, it beats like shadows and rivers,Words are tossed into open wounds. Clouds move and shift;Secrets plummet into the world like warbled voices,Caught in an updraft of makeshift promise. I do not know howTo say this, do not know how to speak the words that clawInside my chest, to say the things that must be spoken.There is only the window, and the flower on the sill-The darkness that thrums, and a cold winter chill.